


Tar And Ember

by danglingdingle



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Captain Will Turner, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Immortal Jack and Will, M/M, Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danglingdingle/pseuds/danglingdingle
Summary: Dreamlike drabble-ish snippets of Jack and Will's life in an assortment of ways.





	1. Chapter 1

Head comfortably resting in the crook of Jack’s neck, Will held Jack’s hand in one of his own.  
  
Closing his eyes, he brushed along each finger gently, feeling each familiar contour and bump, stroking tenderly over the web between Jack’s thumb and index finger.  
  
With a smile, he drew the hand to his face and inhaled deeply, his features turning dreamy as he pushed the lingering scent of soap aside in his mind, and replaced it with conjuring up the memory of the smell of tar and pitch.   
  
Sighing, Will opened his eyes to see Jack’s inquisitive face.   
  
“Found what you were looking for?”  
  
Mum, Will turned back to the hand, first nipping the pad of Jack’s thumb between his teeth, then laved a sample of his palm.   
  
The taste of salt on Jack’s skin, albeit slightly belayed by the perfumed soap, together with the vibrant recollection of years past, gave Will his kiss-muffled answer, laden with craving;   
  
“Not yet.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re evil.”  
  
The mumbled statement came from somewhere under the pillow Jack had shielded himself with from the terrible Sunday morning beastie.  
  
Chuckling, leaning to his elbow while languishing on top of Jack, Will continued to tickle Jack’s ear with the tress of his hair. “It’s hair, not a tentacle.”  
  
Jack peeked cautiously at Will, then melted into a drowsily lewd grin while turning to his side, sneaking his arm around Will‘s back, “That’s what I was afraid of. And it’s evil hair.”  
  
“No,” Will stood his ground, underlining his words with sweeping the curl along the bridge of Jack’s nose, the following wrinkling of it splaying warmth in Will’s chest. “It’s only the most efficient way to make you talk in your sleep, especially when you’re having that dream.”  
  
“Oh,” intrigued, Jack propped himself up, mirroring Will, while kicking away covers and entangling their legs further, so that there would be no escape. “And you wish to hear such things because…?”  
  
Abandoning the tickling device, Will ran a hand along Jack’s hip, slipping his fingers under the waistband of Jack’s pajama pants, then gave a lopsided shrug together with a contemplative suck of his lower lip. “Perhaps I like knowing about your dreams?”  
  
“Is that so?” Jack sought his hand to Will’s arm, the innocent touch alone making his fingers tingle, and wriggled himself closer, ending up just a kiss away from his lips.   
  
“Perhaps,” Will’s fingers traveled further under the cloth to rest his palm on Jack’s buttock, nothing more. “I like what knowing about your dreams does to me.”  
  
“Really,” after pressing his lips briefly to Will’s, Jack leaned back to fully enjoy the age-old burn of the embers some benevolent god had seen fit to embed as Will’s eyes. “So this ain’t just an elaborate scheme to postpone the gruesome tasks awaiting you in the kitchen, then?”  
  
Will bent to press his nose to Jack‘s neck, deftly disarming the man of any, unlikely, objections, and pushed Jack onto his back, “Does it matter?”   
  
Sighing with the pleasure of Will’s weight on him, of his whisper, and the brush of Will’s arousal aligning with his own rapidly overwhelming his train of thought, Jack wrapped his arms around Will and made a trail of tiny licks leading to Will’s ear; “Remind me.” A sharp gasp and an instinctive, demanding nudge of hips gained as a reply to the gravel voice, Jack hummed contentedly as Will buried his head to Jack’s hair, waiting impatiently for the next rush of sensations.  
  
“Where was I, before I was so evilly awakened?”


	3. Chapter 3

The early morning painted Will’s throat with warm light as it caught the sweat beading there, a pearl after pearl joining into a trickle of liquid gold for Jack to ravage and own, by all rights, since it was he who caused it, caused Will to growl, to claw his back in desperation for more, to cry out when Jack fucked him harder, faster, gave him just what he needed.   
  
Biting savagely into the salty skin, claiming his fortunes, Jack held his love tighter, violent grip to hold him still, while Will’s hasty, gasped words made Jack’s back arch, when his voice mingled with his taste.   
  
A long, trembling moan welled from Jack’s chest when he fought, arms trembling, teeth gritted against the unbearable urge to just let it go, just cut the chord and spill himself deep in Will, but the hand in his hair yanking his head back, the beauteous threat snarled, disguised as a demand, and the eyes boring into the core of Jack lent him the strength to obey.   
  
“Fuck me through it, Jack. Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking  _dare_  stop.”  
  
Jack covered Will’s mouth with his own, as it would be not but another word, a gasp, a mewl, that would turn Will’s wishes to dust.  
  
  
Tearing his lips from Jack’s, Will’s neck bent graciously, his face glowing with bliss, an almost tender smile curving his mouth as he took in heavy breaths, then in a sudden movement locked his gaze with Jack’s, tensing, begging in a rasped voice, chanting Jack’s name, until the tidal wave of the apex of his pleasure washed his mind away.  
  
Lost in the awe of being given the gift of having this, Jack forgot himself. All that existed was Will, the hot gripping pulse around his cock, and the open-mouthed, unabashed moan which coruscated inside Jack’s spine, as he fucked Will as commanded, through the highest top, - twice, thrice, five thrusts - and there it was - the moment, where it’s too much,  _too much_ , but you never want it to end.  
  
Will, torn between forcing Jack to stop, to halt, to stay inside him until there was no tomorrow, and wishing nothing more, than to embrace Jack’s shaking body when it was his turn, knowing it was all because of him, Will lowered his leg from Jack’s waist, slowly.   
  
\- ten -   
  
 _“Will.“_    
  
Fingers sliding down Jack’s back, a predetermined path, the mere expectation of them reaching their destination conjuring a beatific smile upon Jack’s face,  _“Will!”_  
  
  
A soft touch of a fingertip, a permission enough for a pirate, and the skin, now soaking with gold, soon bore full reddening marks for guiding, holding Jack at the ends of the world.


	4. Chapter 4

There were still times, especially on days like these, when Will found the mundane, everyday things highly luxurious. Take a shower for example, how the water rushes through the pipes and you can step under the stream, adjust the temperature to whatever happens to strike your fancy. It was cold on a hot day, when you most needed it, and with just a flick of a hand, it turned hot, when the gray upon gray upon black forced windows to be shut, and men seek warmth from wherever they could.  
  
Tea had been the first option, but since it could do only so much, and Will’s hands were still cold, there he stood, in the shower, remembering a time when running water was a God’s miracle at the least, and laughing quietly at the first time he’d seen a water closet… and had been too coy _(Jack? …never mind,)_  to ask how it worked.   
  
The bathroom door opened and Jack walked in, cracked the shower curtain enough to tell Will that it was just him, withdrew again and unbuttoned his jeans, casually announcing that it was raining outside while taking a leak.  
  
Had Will not had his face lathered with soap, and the rush of the water in his ears, he might’ve detected the peculiar colour of Jack’s voice, but, as they were indeed, Will replied only with an unalarmed, soapy mumble.  
  
  
  
Noticeably more warm, Will dried his hair in a towel, and wrapped into a luscious burgundy robe, he trod barefoot into the kitchen, where Jack sat at the dining table looking out, jaw propped on his hand.  
  
The raindrops drummed to the glass as if knocking, asking for a permission to enter, to get inside from the cold autumn, to be allowed shelter, before they could do any more harm.   
  
Jack drummed his fingers on the table, having found a rhythm from the rain to line with, and Will did not have to see his face to get his guts plummeting with dread.  
  
Yes, it had become easier, somewhere between after the last soul lost on the Edinburgh Trader had found their peace and the harsh realization and long - endless - talks how there was nothing in Will’s power to do. He had accepted his place, and if the smile on Calypso’s lips were anything to judge by, that’s how it had been written on the day Will was born, to be a servant of not gods, but… Humanity.  
  
“You said ‘rain’.” Will tossed the towel over a door to dry, and went to Jack, who did not reply nor turn.  
  
His other hand curved around his half-full cup, Jack, leaned forward as if to see better across the lawn, then regained his posture, silent still, except for a ruminative hum.   
  
“And your tea is cold.” Not that it mattered much in a world where one set of eyes saw both hope and despair, and the other saw love and loss, but it gave Will something to say through the thickness in his throat when he embraced Jack from behind, and saw nothing but their yard in the direction Jack was looking.  
  
Fingers stilled from echoing the weather, Jack hugged Will’s arms to him tight, resting his head to the soft fabric of Will’s robe, and to the even softer, the unwavering mainstay of his love.   
  
“I did say rain, didn’t I?” The quiet repetition spoken with even more gray, made Will want to object, to accuse Jack of playing games with serious matters, to hope against hope that it was all false, in fact, Jack hadn’t so much as looked at Will, so it must be --  
  
“I meant storm,” Jack released his hold, yet not letting go entirely, and twisted around enough to face Will. “A really big one.”   
  
When it comes to the difference between lost love and love lost, the surest way to know for certain, was paying note to the amount of bitterness in Jack’s voice.   
  
When there was none, and Jack’s eyes were clouded with another layer to the gray upon gray upon gray, as it happened to be now, it was time for loss and despair.  
  
Without making any effort towards doing such things, “We should get ready,“ Will suggested decisively, staring into Jack’s unseeing eyes, selfishly wishing that it was all over already, so that he could drown into the beauty once more, instead of being blindly looked through.  
  
A wide grin suddenly glamoured Jack’s face, and so much as a wink for a warning, Will was grabbed onto Jack’s lap and his mouth captured with a passionate kiss.  
  
Jack parted with a chuckle, then nuzzled Will’s chest, conveniently revealed by the robe slipping aside, “Have you forgotten what I do see, or need I remind you, dear William?” Replacing his nose with his hand, Jack caressed the tell-tale scar gently with his thumb while pressing his palm to Will’s skin.  
  
“Jack,” following as his counterpart’s gaze brewed storm, shade by shade darker, Will voiced reason; “We don’t have time for this.”   
  
“Yes we do,” Jack lifted his chin toward the window, and through the rain, Will could make out a child in a yellow raincoat, splashing away in his wellies excitedly, chasing a paper boat boldly cutting through the forces of nature in the gutter.  
  
“This happens to be precisely what we have time left for,” Jack nodded, as if agreeing with what Will was seeing, his eyes slowly turning the blue of a raging sea. “Before it’s time for us to lend our time to the ones who have no…time. Left.”   
  
Will took another contemplative glance through the window, and swiftly concluded that Jack was right.   
  
Life, even as it was destined to serve the dead and dying, was still for the living. And living with the destiny to serve the dead and dying, well, it was easier to live with, when there were cornerstones  _(Jack… How does it work?_ ), such as the feel of his love‘s arms finding their way underneath Will‘s robe.   
  
“Yes, Jack.”  
  
“Yes, Will?”  
  
“Yes you do need to remind me.”  
  
The eyes, where love was blue, looked directly at him.


	5. Chapter 5

The best part of mornings, when upon creaking an eye open and finding Will there, scooting closer and snuggling firmly against his sleep-warm body didn’t lead to a drowsy tumble, was to watch the man through said eye as he got out of bed, shed his, relatively ancient, threadbare, once-black  _Led Zeppelin_  t-shirt...   
  
( _“Don’t you reckon it was time to give it a proper burial already?” Said while thumbing the frayed collar, long since lost its elasticity, hoping for a; “No! It’s comfortable, and warm,” to object, together with the strong fingers grabbing Jack’s wrists to be pulled over his head, and a playful smile decorating the “Kind of like you. Should I bury you too?” to nigh unbearable beauty. “Depends,” Jack could never resist filching those smiles with his lips, for keeps, “where you‘d like me to be buried.”_ )  
  
...snatch the still warm clothing when it’d barely hit the bed, and quickly wriggle into it, listening as Will promised coffee through his chuckle, and then, breath in deep the scent in Will’s pillow, while being wrapped in the scent of Will, hugging it to him, meanwhile the scent of Will nestled softly around Jack’s heart as he dozed off again, hunkering from the memory of all the times the years between had eaten, faded, stolen, left Jack without even a scent.


	6. Chapter 6

After departures, there is always the returning; the best part of the day, when the anticipation alone creates the otherworldly experience of hearing the key turn, the door open, the beloved, familiar steps walk in. When one can feel the presence mere moments before two souls are finally sighing in relief, lips joining in a grateful greeting, a lingering touch, a teasing little blow to one’s ear, brushing aside curls escaped from their cue.   
  
Time itself has the courtesy, at times, to slow down in celebration of the lonely vigil one has kept in an empty house, when nothing is worth doing, thoughts flit through an aggravated mind, agonizing when a part of a whole is missing…  
  
But the waiting! The restless excitement of expecting, the relentless butterflies in the stomach fluttering away stretched fractions of seconds. The electricity felt in every limb, the cadence of the tap of the fingers to the arm of the chair! The meaning of it, the depth, the never ending craving manifesting itself in little quirks. That troublous sigh.  
  
And the rattle of the key sounds, and Jack springs to his feet, tossing aside his book, incomprehensible, no matter how many times he read the same page.   
  
And the door opens, this time in this world, in this time, bringing home the other half, and Jack’s heart leaps at the sight of the speck of soot garnishing the side of Will’s cheek, the red tip of his nose, colored by the cold outside.  
  
Jack fidgets as Will kicks off his shoes, eyes fixed on Jack, his brow quirked in an amused arch in anticipation of something special having happened.  
  
He’s right, you know. Today is a day when Love is not blue, but shines in myriad hues, through, inside, everywhere, for today the sun shines brighter, the world turns a new leaf in the trees, and the song of a nightingale was heard.   
  
Life.  
  
It was the same song that was sung mere centuries ago, lighting and evoking, painting roses red and conflating men. These two men, on an ordinary day, weary from work, step forth towards each other, wrapping arms around their counterpart, rest their heads on their supporting pillars, and stay.  
  
‘Welcome home,’ sighs the air around them, carrying the rays of light through the windows so that they can see clearer, find every crook and cranny, revealing,  _blasting out_  the emotions evoked, and just standing there is not enough.  
  
Jack breaths in deep the day’s work from Will’s neck, when Will takes Jack’s hand and raises it to his lips, where he can smell the tar, see the smudges left behind by a day of restoration, when Jack burns on the embers of the memories the soot brings forth, the sensation of fire itself roiling inside Will, that fire a lure, that lure his love.  
  
As the materials become immaterial, creating new when they meet, liquid and fluent and ethereal and beautiful, it becomes obvious this is the time but not the place. Suddenly, in a flash, the air is wrong, home is not home. Not now, when past eras pour and fall over them, whetting, bringing them to lather, exacerbating and impossible to assuage even with skin on skin. Not here.  
  
Will’s nose is warm now as he snuggles Jack’s neck, whispering ‘missed you, need you, escape, Jack,’ and his mouth presses hotly against Jack’s heart when he smiles and tells him; ‘ _take me away_.’  
  
There is a place where the smell of tar is forever, and the embers never cause danger. It’s black as pitch and free. It’s times forgotten and caresses remembered. Fervid words and fervent breath, desire and the elusive horizon. It’s home away from home.  
  
“I know just the place.”


	7. Chapter 7

Chairs huddled together, the two men poured over a book placed on Will’s knees, Jack peering over his shoulder, pointing a finger to each line Will was supposed to read out loud.  
  
They’d gotten past the child’s rhymes, those prayers to God, the heartbreaking images of small graves, shorter than a toddler’s, the sum of the Ten Commandments, and finally, arrived at Some Proper Names for Men and Women.  
  
“Adam, Abel, Abraham, Amos, ” Will recited obediently, Jack’s finger guiding his eyes on each syllable. ”Francis, Gilbert, Giles, George, Gamalial, Gideon,” each name familiar, yet strange, as never before had Will Turner  _read_  them, understood the  _meaning_  behind the marks,  _letters_  forming  _words_ …   
  
They had started with their names, at the very beginning. Will knew how to make his own mark, but when Jack asked him to do his, the man had just sat there, quill in hand, helpless and so very child-like in his building embarrassment. That’s when Jack decided it was time for Will to learn how to read.  
  
His methods may not have been approved by scholars and teachers, given that they included an alluring kiss as a reward for each word Will scribbled on the parchment by Jack’s dictation. Simple words, words that Will was familiar with, that he’d used his whole life; Hammer, sword, pirates, mother, father, mister - and on to the  _New England Primer_.  
  
Between The Infant’s Evening Prayer and Easy Syllables, there laid the skeletons of unwritten words. Simple letters, one after the other, and the fever with which Will devoured them all did Jack nothing short of proud.  
  
Late evenings crouched over the book, Jack leaning on Will’s back, arms around his waist and his voice soft as he encouraged his student to utter the sounds that threatened to stick in his throat.  
  
The ’A’s and ’W’s, ’J’s and ’C’s, together with carefully selected counterparts became names, similar to the Johns, Jonas’, Isaacs, Jacobs, Jareds and Jobs, with an important difference;   
  
”There’s no Jack here,” Will looked up at Jack, surprise clear in his tones. ”Or Johannes. Your name is not a name.”  
  
”What do they know?” Jack peered at the page, laughing under his breath, glowing with the same excitement as Will. ”It seems to have a ’William’ there, so not all can be lost.”  
  
And Jack was once more lost in watching Will hunch over the tome, searching, seeking for the familiar word he knew he would recognize. The glow which alighted Will’s face at the discovery lit Jack’s heart with love. ”Good, strong name,” Jack let his hand slide up to Will’s chest, pulling him closer, tight against himself to stop himself from bursting into flames. The spheres and worlds Jack had to offer Will after these first hesitative steps were taken, the thought alone invigorating, strengthened by the happy glimmer of thought that Jack would have someone to share it all with.  
  
  
Three months into studying, recounting, iterating and repeating, Will knew how to read. He could read anything. Not only the words he’d learned by heart, this was no more memorization.  _This_  was learning new. And what it was, what it  _really_ was, was a door into realms beyond realms. Imagination had never felt tantamount to reality, yet here he was, anxious to find out what happened next in an imaginary life or two.  
  
For the next three months Jack started to suspect he’d created a monster - the sight of a book, a log, the Bible, sent Will under a spell, devouring the volume in one sitting, whenever it was possible.  
  
The books even invaded their bed - yet the only person Jack could blame for that was looking back at him in the mirror. He was the one who had named each part of Will’s body after a particularly fetching word, an arm an arm, a neck a neck, refusing to touch the man until each part had been spelled properly.  
  
Time had turned, centuries had passed, but the passion had remained. The wearisome days when moments melted into another, when years became decades repeating past mistakes, there was still something new to discover. A book, a novel, a poem, thoughts from minds burning to tell stories, and it was all at their grasp…offering them new venues right in their living room.  
  
  
”Everything alright, love?” Jack finally uttered after delightfully observing Will staring into the distance for minutes, a smile on his face, his copy of  _Mentally Incontinent_  resting on his lap while the man himself was perched in the recliner.  
  
”More than,” Will replied with a happy smile, his eyes gleaming the way they always did when he’d latched onto a particularly fond memory. ”Do you remember when you taught me how to read?”  
  
Jack mouthed a soundless ’ah’ in understanding, getting up from the sofa he’d been languishing on, his own book resting on his chest when he had forgotten all about it in favour of something much more compelling. ”How could I possibly forget the delights of that?”  
  
”I can still remember how ’ _young Timothy learnt sin to fly_.’”  
  
The feeling as old as time overcoming Jack, he leaned over Will’s shoulder, wrapping his arm around him, flipping the pages of Will’s book idly, ”I wonder if you still remember how to spell ’thigh’.”  
  
With a chuckle, Will turned to give Jack a small kiss, ”I’m not so sure. That always was a tricky one.”  
  
Marking his place, Will shut the book and turned around further, urging Jack to take the book’s place.   
  
Happily obliging, Jack hopped onto Will’s lap, the binding cast aside. ”Well, my love, if that’s the way it is, I say repetition is still the father of learning.”  
  
”Jack?”  
  
”Mmm?”  
  
”I seem to have forgotten ’neck’ too. And something that rhymes with it, what was it again?”  
  
”Mr. Turner!” Jack stared at Will in feigned shock, eyes wide as plates. ”I suggest we begin our lesson on the spot, then, as we proceed, mayhaps take things to somewhere… more comfortable?”


	8. Chapter 8

The first sight after the wrought iron balconies above the entrance, was the rows after rows of bottles of rum, cognac, curacao, of every ingredient ever known to man to create a delicious cocktail, seemingly unchanged in what seemed like a hundred years.   
  
Standing in the middle of the reconstructed  _Sloppy Joe’s_ , familiar guajira playing softly in the background, Jack’s eyes wandered along the walls filled with hundreds of black and white photographs that were rescued from the devastating fire in the ‘60s, peacefully coinciding with the new photos, full colour, of tourists old and new, a virtual tapestry of history between countries once friendly.  
  
There was a picture among the others which brought Jack to a halt and turned his blithesome grin to one of heartfelt recollection, his hand instinctively searching Will’s, overcome with emotion.  
  
Seeing themselves in the past like that, donned in their panama hats and linen suits, black and white shoes, those smiles on their faces right before it had all gone to hell, there weren’t words that fit the situation.  
  
Slowly, ignoring the bartender, Jack pulled Will closer and pointed at the photograph, at himself with his arm around Will’s shoulders, foot brashly on the peg of the high seat, looking like there was not a care in the world. At Will holding up a daiquiri with a wide smile alighting his face, the giddy blush on his cheeks almost visible in the brown hues of the old picture.  
  
“Can I get you gentlemen anything?” The bartender hollered jovially.  
  
“Two daiquiris,” the men ordered simultaneously without veering their eyes from whatever it was they were staring. “Coming up,” the tapster got to work. “Find someone you know up there?,” the man made conversation while pouring the white rum.  
  
“You could say that,” Will smiled at Jack, nodding towards the bartender, then towards the door. Receiving a nod in return, the men strolled outside to find a table, to bask in the Cuban sun, and their memories, leaving the young man inside staring at the men from a bygone era depicted on the thick, heavy cardboard.


	9. Chapter 9

Will woke up in the middle of the night, the nightmare too tangible to pass as such - what it felt like, was an epiphany. Something was about to happen, and the longer he stared into the darkness, the sweaty sheets clinging to his skin, the more elusive his memory of the dream became.  
  
Fast, passing, fleeting images of burning houses. Of Jack standing before their home, face slack and emotionless, except for his eyes spelling despair and…insanity.  
  
Turning, evening his breath, Will smoothed a hand over the covers under which laid his lover of fifty years.   
  
Eyes slowly accommodating the meager light slithering through the crack between the curtains, Will scrutinized the sleeping beauty of Jack. Peaceful, his eyes lightly shut, and a small smile in the corner of his mouth. Will didn’t have the heart to wake the man to ask him the question which burned inside his hollow chest.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Will banished the lingering terror by rolling to his side and wrapping his arm around Jack’s waist, the comfort of his presence finally lulling Will back into the gentle arms of Hypnos.  
  
\--------  
  
The flames burned almost as hot as the ones consuming Jack when he stood too close to the fire, watching with little interest as the conflagration ate everything on its greedy path.  
  
Eyes unfocused, gleaming, Jack’s face was decorated by a crooked smile. His mind lost in too many ways to mention.   
  
It was him who started the fire, the very next day Will had left back to the seas beneath seas, leaving behind a rusty, brittle heart which struggled to beat for them both.  
  
It was better to burn it all. Better to turn it into ashes, the same that Jack could taste in his mouth when he walked along the beach, down the road, around the corner, and into the empty house.  
  
Terrified people running here and there, the fire spreading along with Jack’s smile. Motionless, he stared, smelling the burning wood, beneath which he could hear the whisper of the fire.  
  
The sounds of paper crackling in the heat woke him from his trance, his breath hitching as he clenched his fists, startled of what he’d done.   
  
The letter. He’d forgotten about the letter.   
  
And Will had trusted him to keep it safe. Trusted him. Called him a good man more times Jack could count, and this is how he repaid him? Allowing his own need to put the past behind overcome his reason, gone far enough to destroy the one thing Will had sworn to keep and to hold.  
  
Jack relaxed his hands again. None of it mattered. Not anymore. Not now, when this was what he wanted. Someone else would have to wait for the Captain. For Jack Sparrow, even eternity was too short.  
  
\------------  
  
Captain Turner woke up in the middle of the night, the smell of burning wood and more filling his nostrils, raising him from his sweaty sheets, forcing him to rush on deck in panic.   
  
‘No smoke‘, his half-awakened brain informed. ‘The Dutchman doesn’t burn.’ Still, the smell lingered.   
  
In a debilitating swoop, his mind took over, flashing images before his eyes; Of Jack, of fires, of bristling, boiling words on a piece of parchment. Words of Jack’s love burning away.  
  
Until it was no more.  
  
\------------  
  
The smoke long since vanished, new sprouts of grass taking over the ground where their house once stood, stood a lonesome man too, holding in his hand a silver ornament which had once decorated a pirate’s hair. He’d worn it as a token, and passed it on as a token of something else. Something fire shouldn’t burn.  
  
Still, there stood a man, on the ruins of love, burned too hot, too fast, too perfect to stay.  
  
Slowly, Will stepped on a blackened stone, dangling the trinket between his fingers, and dropped it - grabbing it again right before it hit the ground.  
  
Determinately, he wrapped his fingers around the silver edges, in that moment learning something about himself; ”I'll wait for you,” he shifted his weight from one leg to another, scoffing at his own thoughts. ’I know you'll never come home, but I’ll wait for you.’  
  
Will turned to leave, the flair of a captain returning on each step. ‘You’ll find me,’ he thought, glancing at the sea glimmering in the distance. ‘and where I am, there you’ll find  _home_.’


	10. Chapter 10

The clouds of the evening did not bode well. The stark contrast between the bright sunshine of yesterday and the gloom of the too-quickly descending darkness made Jack feel uneasy while waiting for Will to come home. By the looks of it, it would be a long time apart, and now that things had finally settled again, the money gotten from the recent movie gone to replenishing the Black Pearl as planned, and Jack was looking forward to spending a quiet evening with his beloved.  
  
Will stormed through the door, that same storm in his eyes, building and flashing, mingled with frustration and anger at the gods who were relentless, capricious and entirely too much to handle even when you were prepared for anything in your immortal power.  
  
“I have to go.” Like Jack didn’t know that already. “There’s a hurricane building up out of nowhere. I swear, Jack, I had nothing to do with this. I didn’t even know about it before I got a visit from Calypso.”  
  
That was the thing about goddesses. Especially when they hadn’t quite forgiven them for having the wool pulled over their eyes in order to blackmail them the freedom of the Ferryman, which, even if Jack said it himself, had gone quite marvelously.  
  
“Does this mean you have to leave right this minute?” Jack stepped closer to soaking wet Will, arms open in invitation. Getting drenched was the least of his worries, when there was no saying when they could meet again. The earthquakes and tsunamis in Haiti and Japan had proven that to be more than true.  
  
“The hurricane hasn’t hit just yet,” Will answered, having produced a towel to dry his hair, chucking damp clothes over chairs to dry until he stood naked in the living room.  
  
All Jack could do was to stare his fill, his mind clambering for something to send Will on his way with good thoughts, the sight of a wet Will meddling with those thoughts peacefully. So he was in no rush.  
  
“You have until tomorrow?” Jack took a stride, bringing him closer to Will, and when his hand finally touched Will’s arm, he found it cold as ice.  
  
“We need to get you warmed up. I’d force a cup of tea down your throat, but knowing that it’ll only make you feel queasy, I think we’ll skip that. But warm up you must.”

-  
 

Will leans into Jack’s embrace pliantly, lingering in the warmth he hadn’t noticed he’d been missing, finding the crook of Jack’s neck to nuzzle and murmur; “I’m sure you can find a way.”  
  
  
Without a second thought, Jack guides them to the bedroom, his mind only working around the fact that the comforters are warm, the bed is soft, and his own body heat can also do so much to get Will’s blood flowing again.   
  
Once Will is tucked beneath the blankets, Jack doesn’t bother making it a show as he divests his own clothes and slips next to Will, gathering the man into his arms, resting his thigh on Will’s hip.   
  
Both their cocks show interest in the proximity, as they would, on their own volition, which naturally gives Will the rather frisky idea that this warming up-thing could go a lot faster with Jack lodged deep inside him.  
  
Sneaking a hand lower, between their bodies, Will draws a sigh from Jack as he squeezes Jack’s half-hard cock with a twist. Jack does not complain. Instead he returns the favour, and wraps his fingers around both their cocks, coaxing Will to do the same.  
  
With irrational relief, Jack makes a note of Will’s cock being as hot as ever, giving him a jolt in his stomach, because this was all about taking care of his lover.  
  
Slow movements made circles of pinkish hues raise upon Will’s cheeks, the flush spreading all across his chest, and from the miserable heap the man was before, he's transferred into something completely different, right there in front to Jack’s eyes.  
  
Will’s hand found Jack's, lacing their fingers together tightly, tight enough for them to enjoy the friction of their cocks meeting, the pressure of their joined hands, and in mere seconds, they found a pacifying, unhurried rhythm, allowing them to share a long kiss without having to part to pant for air.  
  
Languid moments, like warmed wine in front of a fireplace, the knowledge of departure lost in the pleasant haze of one another, but as it goes, it would not be enough. They were always demanding for more, knowing that the other would give it freely.  
  
With Will properly warmed up, the demand changed shape; for pace, for contact, as he mouthed Jack’s collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, a reminder, his hand working faster on their joined cocks, Jack unable to do more than to obey the wordless call. Wordless, but not silent, as Jack wrung out sounds from Will’s chest. Wanton moans when Jack’s thumb brushed over the slick tip of Will’s cock; sigh, when Jack drew his hand slowly over the smooth skin, kissing Will deeply while twisting his hand, conducting this beatific play of love and lust, the line between the two so fragile neither of them knew where the other began, nor where the end was.  
  
Mingled breaths came out harsh, there was no room for lips meeting lips, except for the desperate need to murmur against each others mouths, endearments, promises, sweet, sweet nothings turned into messages of the most importance, for their truth, when the need to become one overwhelmed.  
  
It didn’t take long, while taking an eternity, for the men to come loose, the prickling in the base of their spines simultaneous as if conducted by a master bandleader, the tight grip of building orgasm forcing Will to curve away from Jack, and Jack to curve against Will, as it had always been, as it always would remain.  
  
The feel of their simultaneous completion had never lost its shine. To be able to share that particular moment, to brand each other’s names into their skins with merely words, was something unfathomable.   
  
And then, there was the relief, the certainty. That it would happen again, which was an idea even greater than any form of sexual release. For they  _had,_  somewhere along the line, become one.  
  
Leaving was the last thing in their minds. For they’d always find each other again.  
  
Not that Jack was going to budge before he had Will in his arms again.


End file.
